


Touch Me (Without Using Your Hands)

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 20:26:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10838808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: "Of course, the commercial's meant to be sexy. Of course, Victor probably knows people jerk off to it. Of course, Victor probably bought another convertible or another designer wardrobe or went on another five-star trip to Dubai or Bali or the Great Barrier Reef off the proceeds. But that doesn't make Yuuri feel any better. He's not one of those gross perverts who make lewd, and sometimes frightening, comments on Livejournal about what they'd like to do to Victor. Yuuri is a true fan. He's above this."





	Touch Me (Without Using Your Hands)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Yuri On Ice Kink Meme prompt: "Five times Yuuri masturbates to fantasies about Victor, and one time fantasy becomes reality. Preferably no internalized homophobia or no focus on gender/sexuality, and more focus on Yuuri’s fantasies.
> 
> Bonus: One (or more) of the times involve ~inspiration from Yuuri’s poster collection."
> 
> This is actually the second (unrelated) fill for this great prompt. pi_meson also wrote a fill called "Five Times a Fantasy and One..." 
> 
> Mentions of underage masturbation.

When he's seventeen, Victor Nikiforov's Grand Prix Final exhibition costume is a translucent body stocking with strategically placed appliqué stars. 

Yuuri's first thought is that this is clearly some sort of graphic fever dream. His second is that he doesn't want to wake up. And his third is that he needs—absolutely _requires_ —a poster of this for his collection. 

They don't release one. Yuuri and Yuuko spend hours scouring all the usual corners of the Internet, but nothing turns up. Yuuri's parents, however, have recently bought a full colour inkjet printer for the onsen, and one evening, when they're out for dinner with friends, Yuuri lets himself into the office. 

Using it is not as simple as he hoped. He opens the picture of Victor in a spread eagle and hits print. The printer groans a little, then is silent. Yuuri tries again. Again, the noise, and then nothing. 

Yuuri swears under his breath. He really wants this done before his parents get home, although if asked, he couldn't exactly say why. They've never complained about his obsession with Victor. Yuuri's father, cheap as he is, might tut a little over the excessive use of ink, but that's about it. Still, there's a feeling deep within Yuuri, a sort of thrilling dread, that tells him he shouldn't let his parents see this particular picture. 

“What are you doing?” 

Yuuri jumps when Mari comes up behind him. He minimizes the window just in time. “Do you know anything about the printer?” 

“The printer? Why?” She narrows her eyes. “I thought you told Mum and Dad you were done all your homework.” 

“It's not that.” 

“Then what?” 

“Do you know how to work the printer, or not?” 

“I might, if you tell me what you want to print.” 

Yuuri sighs. “It's a picture of Victor.” 

“Oh, is that all?” Mari sounds disappointed. “You know Dad will lose his shit if he catches you wasting ink.” 

“I know.” 

“What's wrong with the million pictures you already have?” 

He can't answer that. There's nothing wrong with them, but they aren't this picture. 

Mari sighs. “Open the window. I'll show you what to do.” 

For a second, Yuuri feels like telling her to forget it, that he made a mistake. But he really wants this picture in his collection. Ignoring his own blush, he opens the window. Mari's jaw drops. 

It's not that bad, really. Sure, Victor's next to naked, but it's artistic nudity. And the outside spread eagle position he's in is a tough one to master. Yuuri's been working on it himself. He needs this picture for skating inspiration as much as anything else. More than anything else. 

“Just so we're clear,” Mari says, leaning over and tapping the keyboard. “I'm the best sister in the world, okay? Not everyone would print dirty pictures for their little brother's goddamn wank bank.” 

“It's not for my...” 

“Just remember this next time Mum asks if you've seen me smoking.” 

She leaves as the printer whirs to life, spitting out three copies of the picture in succession. Yuuri's blush grows deeper, heating his face almost painfully. He has, recently, started to let his hand drift below his sheets when he's lying in bed looking at pictures of Victor, but it's not a dirty thing. He just appreciates Victor's natural talent, his deep dedication to his sport, his lithe and toned body, his handsome face... 

When Yuuri gets back to his room, the pictures clutched to his chest, he finds an unopened box of tissues sitting in front of his door. His stomach lurches and he wants nothing more than to disappear into the tatami and never emerge, but he still brings them inside. It's not like he can leave them out there in the hall, anyway.

***

The shot starts low. A single, fat water droplet slides down an expanse of glistening milky white skin, disappearing into the top of a butt crack just barely visible at the bottom of the screen. Slowly, the camera pans up, travelling along a muscular bare back until it hits broad shoulders, decorated with a small tattoo of the Olympic rings. The tattoo is there only for a moment before a cascade of silver hair—dry, strangely, but no one's watching this to nitpick realism—artfully tumbles over it. Victor tosses his head and looks back at the camera, a flirtatious smile on his face.

“ _Seon beoseuteu syampuga champion-ui seontaeg-ibnida._ ” His tone is light, but the words sound slightly off, like he learned them phonetically. He probably did. Yuuri doesn't speak Korean, either. Yuuko got a friend of a friend to email them a translation. It wasn't really worth the effort. 

Victor winks at the camera as various bottles of Sunburst shampoo appear on the screen. The video cuts off there. 

Usually, it takes about five consecutive viewings for Yuuri to come. His record is two, but on that occasion he'd been primed by watching Victor win yet another World Championship. Sometimes, when he needs to delve a little deeper to get the job done, Yuuri imagines being there in the shower with Victor. Victor, intrigued by this dashing young Japanese junior, would have invited him in. Maybe, instead of an advertising tagline for shampoo, he would look over his shoulder and whisper, “Yuuri, please touch me.” Yuuri would be all to happy to oblige. 

In the fantasy, Yuuri, even though he's sixteen years old and has never so much as kissed another person, would know exactly what to do. He would use his fingers and his mouth the way they do in the illicit porn he watches on his laptop when he's meant to be sleeping, and he would bring Victor to new heights of ecstasy. “Oh, God, Yuuri,” Victor would call, falling apart under Yuuri's expert ministrations. When he came, it would be crying, “Yuuri! Yuuri! You're the best I've ever had.” And, in life as in the fantasy, Yuuri would be right behind him. 

Later, after he's cleaned himself up, a twinge of guilt always runs through Yuuri. Of course, the commercial's meant to be sexy. Of course, Victor probably knows people jerk off to it. Of course, Victor probably bought another convertible or another designer wardrobe or went on another five-star trip to Dubai or Bali or the Great Barrier Reef off the proceeds. But that doesn't make Yuuri feel any better. He's not one of those gross perverts who make lewd, and sometimes frightening, comments on Livejournal about what they'd like to do to Victor. Yuuri is a true fan. He's above this. 

Or so he thinks, until he puts the commercial on again, and, at the first sight of that water droplet, his cock twitches like he hasn't just filled a tissue. Then, all bets are off, and guilt flies out the window even as he clamps his free hand over his mouth to keep himself from calling, “Victor!” out loud.

*** 

Yuuri's at the rink, stretching before practice, when he gets the text message. Keeping his legs in the perfect split Minako drilled into him, he reaches for his phone.

_Did you watch it yet?_

He doesn't need to ask what Yuuko's talking about. _Of course not._ He hesitates. _Did you?_

 _I thought we should do it together._

_What??????_

_Come on, Yuuri. You know you're going to cave in sooner or later. So am I._

_I am not._ On this point, Yuuri will hold firm. _And even if I did, I can't watch a sex tape with you! What would Takeshi say?_

 _Takeshi wants to know if Victor's a top or a bottom._ A pause. _He bets he's a bottom._

“Yuuri!” Celestino appears in the doorway. “Come on, move your ass.”

“Yes, coach.” 

_Gotta go_ , he types. 

_Yeah_ , Yuuko replies. _Me, too. The triplets are crying for their strained beets._

She logs off, and Yuuri puts his phone into his bag. 

He tries to forget about it, but, as usual, the thought digs rusty hooks into his brain and refuses to let go. It hasn't let go for three days, ever since Yuuri learned about Victor Nikiforov's leaked sex tape. 

Phichit told him about it first, but within moments, Yuuri's Tumblr and Twitter feeds blew up, so he knew it was true. A few hours later, Victor himself even tweeted about it. 

_Sorry to hear everyone will soon know I'm so-so in bed! How will I ever get a date again? ;)_

Yuuri favourited the tweet. Another hour after that, he felt bold enough to tweet back: _Don't worry, Victor, your true fans won't watch! @GoldMedalVictor._ He didn't get a reply. He didn't expect to, but it is the truth. A true fan of Victor's wouldn't watch something so personal. A true fan wouldn't want to. 

But Yuuri wants to. A lot. So much that it distracts him to the point that Celestino lets him go half an hour early, saying, “Get your head out of your ass before tomorrow, kid. You've got Skate America in less than four weeks.” 

With Phichit still at practice, Yuuri's home alone. It would be so easy just to log on and take a peek. The video was removed from the Internet, of course, but Phichit saved a copy, and sent it to Yuuri. Yuuri deleted it immediately, but it's still there, lurking in his trash folder. 

He wouldn't have to watch the whole thing, he tells himself, just the first couple of minutes. What could happen in the first couple of minutes of a sex tape? It's not like Yuuri's never seen Victor naked. He had a nude photo spread published in OutLoud! Magazine's Olympic athletes edition—Yuuri had never heard of the magazine before, but he ordered seven copies—and years ago, when Yuuri was too young to know better, he'd downloaded a grainy paparazzi picture of Victor sunbathing _au naturel_ on the deck of some yacht. It really wouldn't be anything Yuuri hadn't seen before. And if Yuuri watched just that much, just enough to satisfy his curiosity, then he could put this whole thing out of his mind and get on with everything else in his life. Like preparing for Skate America. 

He has to do it, he decides. Just the first two minutes, no more. It's the responsible thing to do. 

Yuuri glances at the clock. There are still a good twenty minutes until Phichit could be expected to come home, and he normally takes a lot longer than that, since he always stops to talk with every single person he meets on the way. Dimming the lights, Yuuri pulls out his laptop and sits on his bed, legs crossed beneath him. 

He's expecting a poor quality, blurry picture, like the paparazzi photo. Instead, the video is surprisingly crisp, like it was filmed with something far more advanced than a phone on a tripod. Phichit heard a rumour that it was, in fact, a professional production “leaked” as a publicity stunt, but Yuuri can't believe it. Victor would never do such a thing.

On the video, all the lights are on. Yuuri can see every detail of what looks like a hotel room, although it's a much nicer one than the Holiday Inns and Ramadas Yuuri usually stays at when he's travelling. Victor and the other man, who is shorter, broader and darker, have already stripped down to their underwear—tiny red satin briefs in Victor's case, Yuuri notes, which look incredible against his pale skin—and are kissing on the unmade bed. 

Victor kisses like he knows what he's doing. Yuuri always suspected he would, although he's never had any proof before now. He's not showy about it, but he takes his time, stroking the other man's hair tenderly as the two of them kiss over and over, barely breaking for breath before they're back at it again. Yuuri's lips tingle, as if he's the one being licked and nipped and seduced by Victor. 

The other man in the video doesn't take much seducing. After a minute or so, he pushes Victor away. Victor complains a little in Russian, his tone of voice clear to Yuuri even if his words aren't, but the man ignores him. Instead, he sits up, pulling off his own underwear, and motions for Victor to do the same.

 _I wouldn't do it like that_ , Yuuri thinks, dismayed. Victor isn't someone who should be rushed. He should be cherished. Worshipped. Loved. 

His lover doesn't seem to agree. He and Victor talk. Victor's tone is voice is much softer than his partner's, who says something sharply and lies on his back.

If Victor seems like a good kisser, then his skills at sucking cock appear truly magnificent. He licks a trail down the other man's body, then swirls his tongue around the head of his cock, planting a kiss to the tip before taking him in. 

Without thinking about it, Yuuri's hand goes to his own dick, stroking as he watches Victor go down on the other man. With every bob of Victor's head, with every smack of Victor's lips and guttural sound from his partner, Yuuri squeezes his fist and imagines he's the one with his cock down Victor's throat. If he was ever honoured in that way, Yuuri would be so gentle, so thoughtful. He would show Victor just how much it meant to him for the most beautiful man in the world to gift him with this precious service.

And Victor is _so_ beautiful. His cheeks are flushed, and sweat glues tendrils of hair to his forehead. Yuuri's chest grows tight, his breath suddenly loud in the empty dorm room. He's close, but he doesn't want to finish yet. He wants to wait for Victor. 

The other man comes with a groan, and Yuuri tugs his cock painfully to keep from following right away. Victor leans over, disappearing behind the far side of the bed. For a moment, Yuuri can't imagine what he's doing, then it hits him: he's spitting. It makes Yuuri smile, although he can't exactly put a finger on why. It doesn't matter. When Victor sits up, there's a smear of come glistening on his cheek, and that's all it takes. Yuuri can't hold it in any longer. 

When he comes down from the high of his orgasm, the men on the video have switched places. Now, Victor lies on his back, fucking up into the man who's sitting astride his hips. Victor's noises are enough to get Yuuri half-hard again already. 

Without pausing to think about it, Yuuri sticks two fingers in his mouth and wets them. He's done this before. He even has a toy, a narrow dildo he bought online and keeps hidden in the depths of his perpetually locked trunk. It's not like Phichit would care. He washes his own sex toys in the bathroom sink with absolutely shameless abandon, but Yuuri's not at that place yet. He doubts he ever will be. This alone feels illicit enough, and Yuuri blushes as he reaches back and slowly pushes one finger inside. 

It's not enough lubricant, really, but Yuuri savours the burn, picturing Victor's not-insubstantial cock. He fucks himself in time with Victor's thrusts, which become faster and faster. The other man, the one bouncing on Victor's dick, disappears for Yuuri. It's just the two of them, Victor and Yuuri, moving together until Victor cries out and Yuuri comes again, a thin dribble that nevertheless has his heart racing and fireworks bursting in his brain. 

Afterward, guilt consumes Yuuri. So much for being a true fan. He's just another pervert after all, willing to violate the furthest depths of Victor's privacy for a cheap orgasm. Or two.

He should confess. It's the only thing to do. But to whom? Phichit is a good friend, but he lives his whole life in public. He wouldn't understand the seriousness of Yuuri's transgression. Instead, Yuuri picks up his phone. 

_I'm the worst person in the world_ , he tells Yuuko. 

Almost immediately, a reply comes. _You watched it?!?! What's it like? Is Victor really hot? Who's he with?_ The questions keep coming. Apparently, Yuuko doesn't understand, either. Yuuri turns off his phone, sticks his head under his pillow, and lies there until Phichit comes home and asks if he's dead.

***

At twenty, Yuuri wins his first Grand Prix medal. It's a bronze at the Rostelecom Cup and, while the medal is thrilling in itself, Yuuri is far more excited to stand next to Victor on the podium.

Well, sort of next to. Victor, who of course won gold, is higher up, but he's close enough that Yuuri can smell him. He smells like flowers and ice. Yuuri thinks he might pass out. 

He's seen Victor before, at various competitions. He's even competed against him, once, but they've never been this close, either physically or in the rankings. When the anthem is finished, Victor looks down at Yuuri. “Come here.”

“Urg.” Yuuri's suddenly forgotten how to speak English. Or, in fact, how to speak at all. 

Victor reaches down and, just like that, they're touching, Victor's arm around his shoulders as Yuuri and Cao Bin crowd onto the middle podium beside him. They pose for a flurry of photos—later, Phichit tells Yuuri he looks like a confused duck, but since Yuuri can't remember anything about the moment, he's at a loss to explain why he made that particular expression—then, in a flash, Victor is gone, tossing his bouquet into the screaming crowd and disappearing behind a wall of men with serious hats on their heads and event accreditation passes around their necks.

Celestino and Phichit want to celebrate. Yuuri's far too dazed to protest, so once he's dressed, he lets himself be dragged to the hotel bar, his bronze medal still around his neck. As ordered, he sits in a booth while Celestino plies him with drinks—“One time thing only, kiddo, don't start thinking it'll be like this every time you win something”—and Phichit snaps and uploads photos he tags with things like: “Best Friend Bronze!” and “Look out Sochi 2014!!!” 

Yuuri appreciates them, he really does. Celestino's been by his side for nearly two years now, and Phichit, true friend that he is, doesn't even seem upset that he himself only placed eighth. Still, it's been a long, stressful day, and honestly, Yuuri wants nothing more than to go to his room, take a nice bath, and maybe ask room service to bring him a really big piece of chocolate cake. He's trying to think of the most grateful, appreciative way of explaining that when the door swings open and Victor comes in. 

He's with two other men and a woman. They're all in Team Russia tracksuits, laughing and talking loudly enough to attract the attention of nearly everyone in the room. The others settle themselves at a table, calling orders at Victor who makes what Yuuri thinks is a rude gesture in their direction. He's not wearing his gold medal, Yuuri notices. Yuuri slips off his bronze and sticks it into his pocket. 

“You should go up to him,” Phichit says, following Yuuri's gaze. 

“What? I couldn't do that.” 

“You were on the podium together, Yuuri. You're not some rando.” 

“What would I even say?” 

“Congratulations? Can I buy you a drink? I've been jerking off to pictures of you since I was thirteen?”

“Phichit! I told you that in confidence.” 

“Oh, Jesus.” Celestino shakes his head. “Forget it, Yuuri. You're worth way more than that jumped-up prick.” 

“He's not a...”

“We can't choose who we love, Ciao Ciao!” Phichit interjects, his eyes theatrically wide. 

“Maybe not, but Full of Himself Victor fucking Nikiforov can kiss my ass if he thinks he's going to fuck around with one of my boys.”

“You have no soul!”

They continue to argue. Yuuri tunes them out, instead looking at Victor as he stands at the bar. 

He still feels residual guilt, from time to time, over that leaked sex tape he watched two years ago, but it hasn't dampened his admiration of Victor. _Maybe_ , Yuuri thinks, as the two vodka tonics hit his bloodstream, _maybe I_ could _go over and congratulate him. He knows who I am, at least. I could just say, 'Hi, I really admired your quad loop...'”_

Yuuri is mulling this over when a man comes up behind Victor. He's not wearing team colours, but Yuuri recognizes him as Christophe Giacometti, inconsistent skater and Victor's best friend. He and Yuuri have never met in person. Yuuri didn't even know he was here. Sneaking closer, Christophe reaches out and slaps Victor's backside, hard enough that the sound reverberates. Victor whirls around. When he sees who it is, his face relaxes into a grin and he throws his arms around Christophe, planting a kiss on his stubbly cheek. 

And there it is. Even if Yuuri were to somehow gather the nerve to speak to Victor, what would be the point? They don't know each other. They aren't friends. They never will be. 

“I'm going upstairs.” Yuuri stands. “I'm super beat. Thanks for everything. I'll see you guys in the morning.” 

“Yuuri...” Phichit calls after him, but he doesn't follow. Yuuri's grateful for that. 

Hours later, Yuuri wakes up in the dark, disoriented with a dry mouth. After a long moment of wondering where he is, he takes his glasses from the nightstand and stumbles to the bathroom. He completes the time saving task of pissing and drinking from a water bottle simultaneously, then glances briefly out the window at the glittering Moscow skyline. When he slides back between the sheets, he grabs his phone as he goes. 

There's a text from Phichit. _I'll be there at 9 with breakfast_ , it says. _Don't keep me waiting in the hall!_ He really is an amazing friend. Yuuri sends a smiley face in return. Even though it's nearly four o'clock in the morning, he more than half-expects an immediate reply. Nothing comes. 

Yuuri's tired, but he can't help himself. He goes to his Twitter account and reads a few of the many new messages. He still can't get over how many there are. Notes from his parents and Minako and Yuuko are expected, of course, but it blows his mind that more than four hundred strangers took the time to congratulate him on his bronze medal. Even now, at this point in his career, Yuuri sees a fan as something he is, not something he has. 

Speaking of which. It's probably a bad idea, but Yuuri goes over to Instagram. Victor doesn't post that frequently, but, like Phichit, Christophe Giacometti never stops. Sure enough, there are eleven pictures from tonight alone. All but one feature Victor. In three of those, Victor and Christophe are both shirtless, and in one they're drunkenly embracing, their bare, muscled chests pressed together. The sight of that, and of Christophe's hand on Victor's cheek as if they're about to kiss, sends a jolt through Yuuri. 

Yuuri's seen Victor have sex with another man. It's not an experience he wants to repeat. Still, looking at that fairly innocent photo, Yuuri's fantasies go wild. 

What if, instead of running away, he'd gone up to Victor after all? Yuuri closes his eyes and watches an imaginary man quite unlike him, hair slicked back and oozing with confidence, saunter up to the bar. 

“Make mine a martini. Shaken, not stirred,” the confident Yuuri orders. Victor and Chris exchange glances, obviously wondering who this sexy stranger could be. “And I hope you've got a king-sized bed, boys,” Fantasy Yuuri adds. “I like to have room to do my work.” 

Real-life Yuuri has actually been in a threesome. It was only once, with a friend from his organic chem class and her bi-curious boyfriend. There was a lot more negotiating of positions than Yuuri expected from his experience with porn, and halfway through the boyfriend had a crisis, not of sexuality but of fidelity. Yuuri ended up watching Youtube and finishing off a container of Chunky Monkey in the living room while the two of them argued it out in the bedroom. He never agreed to a threesome again. 

But this would be different. Victor and Chris have probably— _let's be honest_ , Yuuri thinks, _they have_ certainly—done this before, and Yuuri would integrate seamlessly into their coupling. In his mind's eye, Victor holds Yuuri lovingly in his arms, fucking him from behind while Chris sucks Yuuri's cock. 

“You are incredible,” Victor breathes, as he moves inside Yuuri. “You are exactly what I need. You can never leave us, Yuuri.” 

“I won't leave you, Victor,” Yuuri promises, coming into Chris' mouth and his own hand. 

Yuuri doesn't qualify for that year's Grand Prix Finals, and his scores aren't good enough to perform his free skate at Worlds. It's three years before he sees Victor in person again. 

***

If Victor has his two favourite “L” words, then Chris' preferred ones start with “F."

“Fuck him and forget him,” his friend advises, gazing lustfully at the Japanese boy—Yuuri, was it?—gyrating against nothing in the middle of the banquet hall. “If you don't, Vic, I will.” 

“No!” The word comes out more strongly than Victor meant it to, but he knows his best friend. “Don't. Please.” 

Chris' gaze slides over to Victor, his interest clearly piqued. Victor pretends not to notice. “All right, darling," Chris concedes. "Not if you don't want me to. It's not like there's a lack of delectable options around here. How old's your little blond shadow, anyway?” 

Victor looks over at Yuri Plisetsky, standing sullenly against a wall and sipping a non-alcoholic drink. Probably. “Fourteen.” 

“Did I hear sixteen?” 

Victor laughs. “Try it. He'll rip your balls off.” 

“Ooh. I love a little 'hard to get.'” Chris gives a wolfish grin. “If you want my advice, though, you'd better grab hold of your boy before someone else does.” 

He's right. A crowd of men and women has gathered around Yuuri, cheering him on as he attempts what is probably meant to be a break dancing move. It looks like a great way to sprain his ankle. Or his neck. 

Victor goes over, pushing through the masses. Yuuri falls on his ass and looks up, his glasses askew and a smile on his face that makes Victor feel weak all over, including in his willpower. 

“Come on.” Victor holds out a hand. Yuuri takes it, helping himself unsteadily to his feet. 

“Thanks, Victor.” He smiles. He's been calling Victor that all night, like they know each other already. Strangely, after only a couple of hours of drunken dancing, it feels like they do. 

“We'd better get you to your room.” 

Victor doesn't mean it like that, he really doesn't, but Yuuri's face lights up like a St. Petersburg New Year's Eve. “Yes, please.” A little pink tongue emerges and wets his lips. _Fuck_ , Victor thinks, succinctly. _I'm fucked._

Yuuri has the most luscious ass Victor has ever seen. He wants to sink his teeth into it, to soothe it with kisses, to eat Yuuri out until Yuuri's in tears and they're both desperate. All of these thoughts, and many more, run through Victor's mind over and over as they roam the hotel halls, looking for Yuuri's room. 

“You know, I think there might have been a three in the number after all,” Yuuri says, and if he wasn't so gorgeous, Victor might have already have killed him. 

“We should just go to the front desk,” Victor suggests, again. “They'll tell you where your room is. I do it all the time...” 

“No, no.” Yuuri frowns, a sweet little crease appearing between his eyes. “I'm sure this is the one.” 

Thankfully, this time, he's right. He sticks his key card into the door, and the blessed green light appears. Flush with victory, Yuuri pushes a little too hard, and stumbles into the room with Victor behind him. 

“Victor.” As soon as the door swings shut, Yuuri turns to him. His glasses are still crooked, his truly hideous tie still fastened around his head like a bandanna. Victor's heart lurches. He knows what he wants to do, in extremely graphic detail, but he also knows he can't do it. 

“You should get some sleep.” 

The _moue_ of disappointment on Yuuri's lips is almost enough to make Victor reconsider, but he clenches his fists and holds firm. Usually, Victor would do as Chris suggested: fuck Yuuri as many times as possible and skip out before morning. There's nothing usual about Yuuri, though, or about the way Victor's feeling now. He wants to have sex with Yuuri, very much, but he wants more than that, too. And he very badly wants not to fuck up his chances for the second by jumping too quickly into the first. 

It's the first time he's ever felt like this. It would be scary, if not for the fact that Yuuri looks so completely adorable. 

“Here.” Victor takes a pen from the desk and reaches for Yuuri's hand, writing his number in large numerals along the inside of Yuuri's forearm. “Text me as soon as you wake up. I'll bring you aspirin and coffee and we can... talk.” And maybe do other things, if Yuuri seems sober and into it. God, Victor hopes he's sober and into it. “Okay?” 

“Okay.” Yuuri nods, a look of complete trust in his eyes. Victor's stomach flips, and he can't help himself. 

He leans down and kisses Yuuri. He tastes like an excessive amount of liquor, but underneath that, there's something else, something delicious that Victor is fairly certain he'd be quite happy to taste for the rest of his life. 

When Victor pulls away, he's breathless. “Get some sleep,” he repeats. He has to get out of here, or risk all his noble plans flying out the window. “I'll see you in the morning.” 

“Yes, Victor,” Yuuri promises. Victor leaves before he's overcome with the desire to hear Yuuri scream those words in quite another context. 

He heads back to the party, at first, but it's already begun to break up. Yuri Plisetsky, Victor's nominal charge, is gone, and Chris is making out with a waiter on top of the bar. He's clearly not in the mood for another drink, at least not with Victor, so Victor goes up to his room. For the first time since he was fifteen years old and dying with lust for an older French skater called Fabien, Victor jerks himself off while thinking of a man sleeping just a few floors away.

***

“And after all that,” Victor says, resting his head on his husband's comfortable belly, “you never called!” He sobs theatrically, but at the time, Victor's heartbreak had been very real. He'd left Sochi with his big sunglasses hiding his tearful eyes, Yuri Plisetsky acting suspiciously hung over beside him.

“I've told you a thousand times, Victor, I'm sorry.” Yuuri shifts beneath him. “I woke up sick as a dog. I thought I had food poisoning. When I stopped puking long enough to look at my arm, the numbers were all smeared and I was pretty sure I didn't want to know what it was, anyway.” 

“Hm. I've heard the excuses.” Victor grins. It's taken a long time—nearly five years—but Yuuri is finally willing to be teased about this. Victor's not going to give up the opportunity. “But they can't go back and erase my nights of lonely longing.” 

“ _Your_ nights of lonely longing?” Yuuri sits up, dislodging Victor from his cozy spot. “What about mine?” 

“What about yours, darling?” 

“You know how I feel about you, and how long I've felt it.” That's true. Yuuri confessed his longtime attraction early in their relationship, shortly after they exchanged their engagement rings. Victor doesn't understand why, if he wanted him all along, Yuuri spent so many months in Hasetsu rebuffing Victor's advances, but there's a lot Victor still doesn't understand about Yuuri. That's fine. He would hate to think there were no surprises left. “So...”

“So?” Victor prompts, grinning. He loves it when Yuuri gets like this. Playful, with just an edge of something a little harder, a little more demanding.

“So, I think you should do something about it.” Yuuri stares at him. The Lasik surgery has worked wonders for his vision although sometimes Victor misses Yuuri's adorable glasses. 

“Please, Yuuri.” Victor's cock is already stirring eagerly. “Tell me what to do.” 

There's no hesitation. “I want you to watch me,” Yuuri says, and he pulls off his briefs. 

Victor's never been good at self-control. When it comes to self-control involving Yuuri, he's fairly sure he used up his lifetime supply on the first night they met. After his wandering hands reach out for the third time, Yuuri slaps him away and grunts, “If you can't keep them to yourself, I'll tie you up.” 

“Sounds more like a promise than a threat, my love,” Victor says, but he obeys. 

It's an endeavour of heroic proportions, but he obeys. He bites his lip while, a breath away from him, Yuuri jerks his own cock, his thumb pressed over the slit and his fingers sliding up and down the shaft.

Despite how his darling husband might appear to the general public, Victor knows the true Yuuri. The true Yuuri is sexy and daring and adventurous. He's the one who brought handcuffs into their bedroom, and whipped cream, and on one occasion, a riding crop, although they both agreed they could live without using that one again. But after half a decade, this is a new one. _Still surprising me_ , Victor thinks, his heart overflowing with love. 

Finally, the sights and the sounds and the smells are too much. Victor reaches down and touches himself. Yuuri looks, but he doesn't object, so Victor wraps his hand around his dick. It's a little dry, but Victor needs that soupcon of discomfort. If not, he would have come at the first touch. 

“Victor,” Yuuri gasps. He's going at full speed now, the head of his cock appearing and disappearing within his fist. 

“Yuuri,” Victor replies. His voice is low and gravelly, barely recognizable. 

“Fuck,” Yuuri mutters and climaxes, splattering Victor's stomach with his warm come. 

That's all Victor needs. He does the same, coming into his hand. This is a banal act, even a juvenile one, but looking at Yuuri's satisfied smirk, it feels like the dirtiest thing they've ever done. 

“I love you,” he says. He tells Yuuri so all the time, but that doesn't make it any less true. “Before you, I didn't even know what that meant.” 

Yuuri grins, a flush colouring his beautiful face. “You're a dream come true,” he replies. Heedless of the mess between them, he throws his arms around Victor and pulls him down onto the bed. They lie as close as they can get, legs entwined. After a long, peaceful moment, when Victor's heart rate is almost back to normal, Yuuri whispers, “Victor?” 

“Yes, darling?” 

“Do you think you can still fit into that body stocking with the stars?” 

Victor knows the one he means. He knows where it is, too, in a storage locker nearby with all of his old costumes. He never bothered sending them back to Russia. “For you, my love, I will certainly try.” 

Yuuri hums contentedly. Victor agrees with the sentiment. He cuddles in close and shuts his eyes, happy, loved and at peace.


End file.
